


Darkroom

by Steals_Thyme (Liodain)



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Crimebusters Era, Identity Porn, M/M, Photography, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 04:15:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3881929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liodain/pseuds/Steals_Thyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rorschach takes advantage of Dan's newest hobby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darkroom

"I just thought," Dan says from where he is knelt next to the spatter of blood, one hand on the blacktop and the other clasped protectively around his camera, "it would be more professional for us to document the evidence we find. You know, something for our records after we've turned it over to the police."

Rorschach moves up into Dan's space as he straightens up, makes him take a step back. His heels sink into something soft and mulchy, and the stink of moldering newspaper spreads through the alleyway. It mingles with the stale alcohol that wafts from the vicinity of the nightclub, caught on the bass rhythm of the music. Under the cut shadow of his fedora, Rorschach's mask takes on the hue of the neon signs strobing overhead, red-yellow-red under pissed-off splotches. 

" _I_ am not evidence," he growls.

"I was only taking a couple test shots." Dan grins. Silhouetted against pale steam, hat slanted over his mask and trench coat fluttering about his thighs, Rorschach had been the very picture of a noir detective. And now the picture is Dan's: Rorschach in his element, not the stiff, vaguely hunted creature he's clipped from newspaper articles, the same posture in the same picture over and over. It's the only stock the papers have of them, taken shortly after they busted Big Figure, and it's been repro'd to death. "C'mon, lighten up."

Rorschach relents, turning with a short, frustrated sigh. "Fine," he says. "But don't point that thing at me again." 

He makes it about a half-dozen paces away before Dan's willpower fails. 

_Click_.

-

Rorschach is talking to him again by the next night. On one hand, that is a good thing. On the other, he is being a first-class dick about things. Dan rolls his eyes to the ceiling, made an incredulous gesture with the hand that isn't holding the camera. "I wouldn't _send my film away_ to be developed. You wouldn't partner with me if you really believed I was stupid enough to do that, so quit busting my balls over it, okay?" A pause. "It's mostly birds, anyway."

"Hehn. Suppose you built your own darkroom," Rorschach says. _Frivolous new hobby_ , his tone suggests. _Of course you aren't serious enough to waste significant time and resources on it._

"You underestimate me sometimes," Dan replies, trying not to be too smug about it—nor too enthusiastic—when he asks, "Want to see?"

-

"Could cause a serious problem." Rorschach is still lecturing as he follows Dan down into a walled-off corner of the Nest, the sharp odor of chemicals drifting up to meet them. "Carelessness leads to compromised identity. One slip, one misjudged picture in the wrong hands? Photographs are easily duplicated, put into circulation. Very dangerous."

"It could," Dan says, flicking on the safe light. "I know, but I'm not being reckless with this. They won't leave the Nest, and the only other person who's gonna see them is you." He holds up three fingers in salute. "Scout's honor." 

That finally halfway satisfies Rorschach. He falls silent except for the occasional disinterested grunt as Dan explains his setup: wet station here; enlarger there; a counter with trays of developer solution, stop bath, and fix. He gets to the line he's strung up and populated with photographs pegged out to dry, and Rorschach immediately zeroes in on the picture Dan took of him the previous night.

"Looking good, huh?" Dan says, admiring the picture over Rorschach's shoulder. It's pretty striking, even if he does say so himself.

Rorschach practically shrinks in on himself. Seems flattery still gets him nowhere (unless it's admiration over how swiftly he can make a felon's face greet the sidewalk). "Has some merit," he mumbles. "Good lighting."

"I'm a fan of the subject matter, personally."

An ambivalent noise. "Been down here too long, Daniel. Fumes gone to your head."

Dan grins. The first intimation is always a precarious, unpredictable thing, and even though it's been a while since Rorschach has responded with shame-fueled hostility, the deflecting still seems outright flirtatious by comparison. At the very least it's an indication that he's in good humor, and that means more leeway for Dan to make outrageous suggestions. "Maybe we should go upstairs, then," he says.

"Can't fault your logic." Rorschach fastens the picture back onto the line, turns so they're face to face. "But I—hrn." He tilts his head down, then to the side, mask undulating as he works his mouth around words that don't quite make it out. "How... dark is this darkroom?" he finally asks.

"On a scale of one to ten?" Dan says, and flicks the switch. " _Dark._ " There's the flare of an afterimage, black dancing on white. Dan blinks, straining his eyes to find something to focus on in the featureless gloom.

"Hehn." There's the scuff of Rorschach's boots on the concrete floor, slow and precise, mapping. "Leave it off. Don't turn it on again unless I tell you," he says.

"You're the boss."

A pause. "I mean it, Daniel," Rorschach says, and now his voice is closer than Dan expected. With a touch of amusement (and maybe some embarrassment), Dan realizes he's been flanked.

"Hey, so do I." Dan turns, reaches out, finds the coarse fabric of a trench coat sleeve. He follows the arm, reading the topography bare-handed: repaired knife-slash here, grit collected in a crease there, and a patch high on the outside shoulder, worn smooth through years of standing just that close to Nite Owl.

In retrospect, it's a wonder it took them so long to get to this point.

His fingers happen across the passant, over the contrast of cool, hard button with the soft nub of cotton in the center, and then on to the collar. He runs a hand over the creased leather, feels out the point of the lapel and with a gentle tug, draws Rorschach in until the brim of his fedora bumps his nose. It smells like city air. "What's the plan here?"

A low, throaty noise from Rorschach—impatience, gentling unease, or just something to fill the empty space while he flips his hat away. It lands with a soft slap somewhere behind them. Dan brings his hands up to stroke the curve of Rorschach's head, expecting the familiar cling and slip of latex against his palms.

He's brought up short instead by the texture of hair, wiry and sweat-damp. 

"Wh-whoa, hey," he says, breath hitching involuntarily as comprehension hits him in the chest. He leans in on impulse, fingers knotting into what feels like wiry curls, and presses a kiss to Rorschach's bare forehead, his temple, his eyebrow. His face.

"Sh," Rorschach says, and his brow creases under Dan's mouth. He takes Dan's wrists, disentangles him. "Remember what I said."

"No lights until you say so," Dan murmurs. He relaxes his hands; he can feel the small bones in his wrists roll under Rorschach's grip. "Of course. You know you're safe with me." 

A rattled breath, and Rorschach lets go of one of Dan's wrists. He guides the other so Dan's hand is trapped at the line of his jaw, held between gritty stubble and soft glove-leather. They find each other in the dark this way, brush noses and make glancing contact with lips until their bearings are solid.

Dan curls his fingers and turns Rorschach's face, slicks his tongue against his lips. Rorschach opens in silence. The inside of his mouth is perilously soft, deep in contrast to his exterior. Dan groans, and like it's a cue, Rorschach grasps the back of his neck and pulls him further in, anchors him with a firm kiss.

Darkness makes him bolder. Dan isn't expecting the hand at his fly, fumbling at the zipper, and he bucks against the clumsy attention. The limits of his world are defined by his mouth and Rorschach's hands, and by the heavy smell of warm leather and chemicals. The situation is taking on a half-real quality, the clarity of a sharp-focused dream that lingers after waking. He isn't sure if his eyes are open. 

Rorschach brings them a step back. There's a worktop around here somewhere; Dan finds the edge of it with both hands, bracing himself as Rorschach tugs at his belt. The buckle clinks, and he arches so Rorschach can pull his pants and boxers down to his thighs. 

Dan's pulse throbs, crashing in his ears as Rorschach wraps his fingers around his dick, and god, he still has his gloves on.

He expects it to be over quickly, frantic like always. Rorschach seems driven both by the need to do this and the need for it to be done. It would maybe feel cheap, but without fail, his urgency is a turn-on. Dan finds value in the impact of an alley wall, the way he's pushed to his toes by the force of Rorschach's body, cape snagging on brickwork as they grind it out. And then there's the precious few seconds of grace afterward when Rorschach rests his forehead against Dan's throat, his breath coming like sobs.

What he gets is something different: the hand on his dick cups him loosely, finally brave enough to learn the weight of him. Rorschach's other hand slides under his shirt to rub the crest of his hip and around his waist, curls possessively against the hint of softness there that Dan can never quite manage to shift. This slow, exploratory touch feels more like the come-down; fragile, a held breath.

Dan inclines his head, rests his forehead against Rorschach's. "Hey, I—" he whispers, but Rorschach hushes him again. Pretty lucky really, since Dan has no idea what he was actually going to say. Something sentimental that would earn him some oblique mockery later, maybe. 

"Daniel," Rorschach breathes. Voice stripped of his mask's transmutations, he sounds naked. His hands are abruptly gone and Dan can hear the sound of fabric against fabric, the whisper of shed clothing. In his mind's eye, Dan sees the trench fall away, the jacket, the shirt; imagines a lean chest puckered with scars, an image collaged together from glimpses of bruised skin and freckles and the jut of a collarbone.

When Rorschach leans against him again, Dan finds shirtcloth under his hands, but there's no disappointment, not when Dan can feel just how hard he is, a hot brand against his thigh.

"God," Dan mutters, and grabs Rorschach's ass with both hands, propriety be damned. Rorschach rises against him like a wave, and it's a new shape to his strength, different from seeing the flex of his body under streetlight or workshop fluorescents. He's described differently in pitch black, under seeking hands.

Dan squeezes, runs his hands up Rorschach's back, under the shirt and then back down again, dragging over each nub of vertebra in his spine. Trying his fingernails makes Rorschach shiver and jerk; he wrests free, drops to his knees, hands sliding down Dan's chest as he goes. He prickles the inside of Dan's thighs with sandpapery stubble, nudges his nose alongside Dan's balls, inhales loud and deep.

It's a flagrant indulgence, more than the immediate need of their encounters so far—Rorschach is more intent, more _there_. His tongue is tracing a warm line at the crease of Dan's thigh and his fingers are gliding lightly over Dan's dick, glove-leather tantalisingly soft, texture just rough enough to make Dan whimper.

His knees buckle; he lets himself sag against the worktop, slowly lowering himself to sprawl out on the floor, legs spread and knees bent. Rorschach is still mouthing and nuzzling at him. Dan reaches for him, knots his fingers in his hair, tugs gently, and again, until he gets it and crawls up to kiss Dan on the mouth. He tastes wet and musky and Dan can't get enough, can't kiss him long or hard enough.

"Hey," Dan says between breaths, fingers at Rorschach's throat, trying to undo the buttons of his shirt. "This. Off."

Rorschach pulls it off over his head, and Dan hears a button ping and skitter away someplace. Cotton flits against his face, maybe an errant sleeve, whatever, it's gone and that's what matters. He goes to unfasten his own shirt but Rorschach's hands are already there, warm and nimble, now ungloved. Rorschach grunts, tugs Dan's arms up above his head and peels his sleeves off—almost off, the cuffs catch on his hands and Rorschach pulls the shirt taut, twists it around and knots it around his wrists. Dan exhales sharply and tries his bonds. If he could see, he's sure the room would be spinning.

Dan feels him shift his weight and straddle his thighs. The sensation is ethereal, put together from pieces; he is the soft skin of his inner thighs and the warmth of his cock and the damp breath on Dan's collarbone. Then he is heat and pressure and real solid flesh, bone and muscle. 

And then he starts to move. 

Kind of.

All Dan can do is sigh and make encouraging sounds; every time he tries to say something more, Rorschach bites at his mouth, drags his lower lip through his teeth and halts his already agonizingly slow pace until Dan subsides. It's borderline unbearable how much Dan wants him to use his hands, squeeze them together in his fist. He clenches his own bound fists, bucks his hips at the thought, just as Rorschach leans in for more leverage. That tips him forward, presses their dicks tight between their bodies and Rorschach whines, rutting fast suddenly, uncontrollably, hands grabbing at Dan's hips, pulling him close.

"Yes," Dan gasps, and uncoils all at once, self-control just a pipe dream. Rorschach makes a knotted noise, and through the fractal-edged fuzz of consciousness, Dan feels his thighs tense. There's a new warmth, slick between them.

Rorschach leans in, bumps their foreheads together. He's panting like he just sprinted a mile. They both are. It seems a long time until they can catch their breath, and even then, Dan's heart is still tripping along like it's not got the memo. Now would be a great time to ask to be untied, but his brain's checked out and his mouth only wants to make mushy, incoherent noises.

Eventually, Rorschach shuffles off him and onto unsteady feet (Dan hears his hands against the edge of the worktop). Probably looking for his clothes, Dan thinks, and his mask.

He carries on believing that's what Rorschach is doing, right up to the moment the flash goes off.

_Click_. 

-

It really is an appalling photograph, and Dan should destroy it immediately. Any number of dead relatives are turning in their graves at the mere concept of this photograph's continued existence, and Dan himself suspects he is breaking a number of laws just having it in his possession. He has to look at it sideways in case he spontaneously combusts from the sheer debauchery of it all. _And_ it's not even properly in focus.

He burns the negative, but keeps one print.

-

It's difficult to bide his time, but the payoff is worth it. A little over two weeks later, Rorschach leaves his journal on Dan's kitchen table while he ostensibly uses the bathroom but is probably also snooping through Dan's medicine cabinet.

"Sloppy," Dan says to himself, sing-song, sliding the photograph indiscriminately between the pages. 

He doesn't have to wait long. While Dan takes control of Archie, Rorschach props his booted feet on the dash, pushes up his mask to lick the tip of his pencil and pings the rubber band off his journal. He flips it open, and the pages settle to the most convenient place. 

Dan tries to project an air of casual nonchalance. It doesn't really work.

Rorschach makes a choking noise, and the photograph flutters to the floor. He looks absolutely mortified, and Dan tries to cover his erupting laughter with a coughing fit. That doesn't work either. He bends and catches up the picture, slides it back into Rorschach's journal.

"I believe this evidence belongs to you," Dan says. He is going to pay for this recklessness later. Maybe they should start a scrapbook. "Keep it safe!"

\- — -


End file.
